Pemberley Ranch (10 page)

Of course
, she realized, glancing at Miss Darcy sitting next to her.
He can’t trust his sister out of his sight for a moment! Poor girl, to have such an unpleasant brother!

Mary opened the performance with a hymn. Beth hid a wince. Once again, Mary was trying too hard to achieve a stateliness to her performance, while damaging the musicality of the piece.

“She’s very… solemn,” whispered Gaby in her ear.

Beth giggled. “Oh, yes—very solemn, indeed.”

Gaby blushed. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet, I meant no harm.”

Beth reached over and took Gaby’s hand. “No offense taken. And you must call me Beth if we’re to be friends.”

Gaby’s relieved smile almost broke Beth’s heart. “Call me Gaby, please, Beth. And Anne—you’ll call her Anne, won’t you? We’re so glad to make new friends.”

It had been a long time since Darcy had as much enjoyment as he did sitting on a hard church pew in the back of a Baptist church. Each of the ladies who could play an instrument took a turn, first performing by themselves then accompanying those who only sang. Mary Bennet was adequate, although Tilney seemed to enjoy her singing well enough. Darcy hid an amused grin. Jane Bingley was no surprise—he had heard her often at dinners he had attended to know of her talent. He had a bit of concern as Gaby took to the instrument to play “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee,” but after an early falter, she rallied and played flawlessly, gaining confidence as she went on. Darcy restrained
himself from joining the others jumping to their feet in delight after she finished.

He was spellbound as Beth Bennet sang “Amazing Grace” as Jane played. Hers was not a classically trained voice, but the feelings she produced were authentic and moving. His admiration of her talents and thankfulness for the kindness she showed to Gaby and Anne only fueled his desire for her. The sound of her voice seemed to dance across his skin. Oh, to have those full lips sing his name as she took her pleasure! Darcy shifted in his seat.

“Will, are you all right?” Tilney asked him. Mortified, Darcy assured him he was well.

They were startled as the doors crashed open. “Jane! Jane!” Doc Bingley cried as he ran up the aisle, waving a slip of paper in his hand. Alarmed, the two men ran after him, the concert coming to an abrupt halt.

“What is it, Charles?” Jane instinctively covered her pregnant midsection.

“She’s coming today! I just got this from the telegraph office.” Charles shoved the paper into his wife’s hands. It only took her a moment to read the message. She paled.

“But… but she wasn’t coming until June! You read her letter.” The two talked as if all the others had disappeared. They had not—they all stood around in various stages of alarm. They knew
something
was amiss, but it was a mystery as to what it was exactly.

“I know, but she’s on today’s stage. She’ll be here at any time!”

“But I’m not ready!” Jane cried in a panic. “Her room’s not ready. How can she do this to me?”

“I’m sorry, but what can I do?”

Darcy stepped in. “Forgive me, but what the devil are you two talking about?”

“Caroline! Caroline’s coming! Today!” Charles said.

Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “Caroline? Who’s Caroline?”

“My sister, Caroline, from New Orleans. I’m sure I mentioned her.”

Beth gasped. “But you said she wasn’t coming until June. That’s at least two weeks away.”

Tilney broke in. “Uhh, folks, if Doc Bingley’s sister is on today’s stage, I suggest we get to the hotel. It’s due any time now.”

Charles was wide-eyed. “I know! That’s why I’m here. Jane, can you come?”

“My house!” Jane cried.

“It’s all right,” Beth assured her. “We’ll see to everything, won’t we?” She turned to her sisters, who quickly agreed. Charlotte, Gaby, and Anne excused themselves, but Jane would not hear of it, insisting that they remain to enjoy themselves.

“Jane,” Darcy said in a firm yet gentle voice, “why don’t we adjourn to the hotel and take our leisure? My cousin, sister, and I would be glad to keep you and Charles company.”

“Oh, thank you, Will! Beth! Beth, you come, too. Please!”

The group broke up into two parties. Mary, Kathy, and Lily went to the Bingley house to prepare it for the guest, while the others walked over to the hotel. Charlotte joined them, but Tilney excused himself. An hour later, a now-composed Jane and Charles Bingley, with their friends and relations, met the stagecoach as it pulled up. A gloved hand waved from the window.

“Charles! Oh, Charles! How wonderful to see you!” called a high female voice from within.

Charles stepped up and helped a blonde woman descend from the coach. Her traveling dress was dusty, and the feathers on her hat drooped into her face.

“Oh, you must be Jane!” Without ceremony, the woman drew Jane into her arms. She gave her a quick kiss and released her, turning to Charles.

“My God, Charles, what god-forsaken place have you dragged me to?”

Caroline Bingley had arrived.

June

I
T DIDN
’
T TAKE LONG
for Beth to come to the decided opinion that Caroline Bingley was the most unpleasant woman in the world.

With Caroline’s early arrival in Rosings, Beth naturally wondered if the plan for her to move in with the Bingleys in June to help out until after the baby was born was still necessary. Jane assured her that it was, so Beth moved into the lone guest room in the Bingley house as scheduled, sharing it with Charles’s sister. Beth truly intended to get along with Caroline, and she tried mightily—for a week.

It wasn’t because Caroline was outright mean, Beth would later admit to herself. She would have to be noticed first by the blasted woman to be directly insulted. Caroline typically ignored her existence and refused to talk to her unless absolutely necessary. She was treated more like a servant than a relative.

Beth’s job was to do everything that Jane normally would, so her sister could take her rest in preparation for the baby. The work of washing, cleaning, and cooking wasn’t difficult—Beth
had done it her entire life. But instead of doing it for three people, she was doing it for four. Caroline, by hook or crook, refused to lift a finger to help. Bingley’s sister either didn’t know how to cook, had to keep Jane company instead, or developed a headache when chores had to be done.

Caroline had plenty of opinions, though, and spent most of her time expressing them. It was terrible that Bingley couldn’t afford a servant, she had said. It wasn’t like the old days back at Netherfield. The town was so small, and she wondered how Charles and Jane could tolerate it. No theater, no music. It was simply barbaric! She couldn’t abide the simple farmers and dirty ranch hands. There were too many “others” in town—by that, she meant Mexican people. But she reserved her greatest ire for the “carpetbaggers” and “scallywags,” like George Whitehead and Billy Collins.

“Imagine a son of Georgia working with that slimy Yankee!” she declared one day when she and Beth had met the two on the street after a shopping trip to Zimmerman’s. “But, I suppose he was the son of a shopkeeper or something. Class always tells, Miss Beth.”

Beth gritted her teeth but kept an indifferent expression. “Mr. Whitehead is a very respectable man. He was appointed by the governor himself.”

Caroline dismissed Elizabeth’s comment with, “Another scallywag in the pocket of those vile carpetbaggers.”

Beth tried to be polite. “Perhaps, but Governor Davis was elected by the people of Texas.”

Caroline smiled patronizingly. “After the Yankee soldiers purged the voting rolls! Charles told me all about it. Oh, Miss Beth, you have no idea what we’ve had to put up with down here.” She paused. “Y’all are from Ohio, I understand?”

“Yes, we are.”

Caroline’s nose seemed to rise. “That explains things. You have a lot to learn, Miss Beth, bless your heart.”

It didn’t take long for Beth to realize that Caroline used “bless your heart” as a means of taking the sting out of her most pointed insults.

Passing a ranch hand on the street: “He probably hasn’t had a bath this year, bless his heart.”

After meeting Charlotte: “Not every girl can be born pretty, bless her heart.”

Beth’s clothing: “I suppose livin’ on a farm you have to make your own dresses, bless your heart.”

When Caroline wasn’t holding court over the shortcomings in Rosings, she reflected on life at Netherfield, where the Bingleys grew up, or waxed elegant over New Orleans, where she was currently living with her sister and brother-in-law, the Hursts. The music, the food, the society—everything was superior in the Queen City of the South. She talked endlessly of the fine parties and balls she had attended, particularly about an event called “Mardi Gras.”

“A
bal masque
,” she explained, “only attended by the cream of society. Oh, Charles, if only you lived in New Orleans! With Mr. Hurst’s connections, I’m sure that you and dear Jane would soon be in the highest circles.” She then turned to Beth. “And I’m sure we could do
something
for you, too, dear.”

The only resident of Rosings who seemed worthy of Caroline’s notice was Will Darcy. He brought his sister to dinner one night, and Beth was amused at how Caroline practically threw herself at the man. It was obvious that the woman’s interest was purely monetary, for she spent the entirety of the dinner
asking Darcy about Pemberley Ranch, ignoring Gaby altogether. Beth swore she could see dollar signs in Caroline’s eyes.

For his part, Darcy treated the woman with the same disdain he held for everyone. Beth almost laughed when the rancher grew so desperate for other conversation that he actually tried to talk to her. Beth’s eyes danced in mischief each time she spoke with Darcy, knowing that her actions would infuriate Caroline. Beth knew that if looks could kill, she would be dead. It never occurred to her to pay attention to Darcy’s expression.

At least the two women could share a room without incident. There were two beds—fortunately—and as Beth tended to retire and rise early and Caroline was of the opposite inclination, one was always asleep when the other was not.

Beth could not talk of Caroline’s behavior to either Charles or Jane. Beth did not want to trouble her tenderhearted sister in her delicate condition. And Charles was oblivious. “Oh, that’s just Caroline,” he would say. “It’s just her way. She’s had a hard time. You shouldn’t take it to heart.” The man was useless.

Charlotte was her only confidante, and Beth told her the story of her strained relationship with Caroline on the way home from church that Sunday.

“Beth, I’m so sorry. I had no idea that a sister of Doc Bingley could be so unpleasant.”

“It is a surprise. I keep waiting for Charles to say something to her, but he never does. He keeps saying she’s had a hard life and I have to forgive her. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

“How does she treat Jane?”

Beth thought. “Well, she’s never really mean to
her
. Caroline’s got plenty to say against everybody else in town,
including my family, but it’s like she exempts Jane from criticism because she’s Charles’s wife. But she’s lazy and demanding and no help at all!”

Charlotte grinned and slipped into a Southern drawl. “‘We Southern belles are so delicate, we get the vapors if we do anything more than breathe, I declare.’”

Beth laughed. “She has her nose so high in the air she needs a guide to help her walk down the street,
bless her heart
!”

The girls laughed all the way home.

George Whitehead followed Pyke down the upstairs hall of Younge’s Saloon, towards room number five. He had received a letter earlier in the day from a Mr. Carson requesting a private business meeting. The pair paused before the door.

“You searched this fellow?” Whitehead asked Pyke. His henchman assured him that Carson’s person and luggage had been inspected and no weapons had been found. Whitehead touched his own gun belt and indicated that Pyke should knock on the door.

“Come in,” called a male voice.

“Stay close by,” Whitehead told Pyke as he turned the knob. Pyke nodded and stepped away to the head of the stairs.

Whitehead slowly walked into the bedroom. The room was bare—only a bed and dresser joined a small table with a couple of chairs. Whitehead’s quick glance took in a battered suitcase at the foot of the bed and a hat on one of the series of hooks on the wall opposite—but no inhabitant.

As alarm bells went off in Whitehead’s head, a voice softly said, “Close the door quiet like, or I’ll plug you right now.”

Moving slowly and deliberately, Whitehead stepped far enough in to close the door. Hands outstretched away from his body, he turned back towards the door. Standing beside it, in a spot where he could be hidden from the outside, was a man holding a pistol.

“If you’re holding me up, you’re bound for disappointment,” Whitehead said with a trace of bravado. “My wallet’s in my office.”

“Shut up. Move over to the other side of the room. Don’t talk.”

Whitehead became nervous. The man’s voice was deadly calm, indicating this was a planned ambush. He handled the gun with practiced ease. Whitehead knew he had to be very careful, or he would not leave this room alive. Hands up, he did as he was bid, placing the table between himself and the man called Carson.

“All right, now unfasten that gun belt—one hand only.”

Whitehead’s eyes never left his assailant as he slowly unbuckled the belt with his right hand. The holstered gun slipped to the carpeted floor. Whitehead stared hard at the man opposite. There was something familiar about him.

“I suppose you have a reason for all this, Mr. Carson—if that’s your real name.”

“Oh, I have a reason, all right. You’re George Whitehead, right?”

“I am.”

“The name Churchill mean anything to you?”

Whitehead’s blood ran cold—a ghost from his past had come visiting. He knew that yelling for Pyke would do no good. By the time Pyke could open that door, Whitehead would be dead.

“Yes,” Whitehead said. “James Churchill and I served in the war together.”

“I know. He told me all about it. I’m his brother, Frank.”

Whitehead said nothing, his mind racing.

“Where’s the money, Whitehead?”

Whitehead’s first thought was to deny everything, an impulse he dismissed immediately. Lying would do no good. He had to stall, though—he had to find out how much James had told Frank.

“Here.”

“I’ve come to get Jimmy’s share.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Churchill raised his gun. “
This
says it’s easy. Half of twenty-five thousand—that’s twelve thousand five hundred. I want it.”

“And then you’ll kill me?”

“Get me the money, and we’ll see. Don’t and you’re dead.”

“No, you’ll shoot me as soon as you get the cash. And I don’t blame you.”

Churchill gritted his teeth. “You killed my brother.”

“No, I didn’t. He saved my life.”

“Don’t you lie! You killed Jimmy and took all the money! The law came to the house during the war saying Jimmy took that money an’ was hiding out. But I knew that was a lie! Jimmy would never just leave and not get word back to his family. When months went by, we knew he was dead.” A feral look came into his eyes. “I knew what really happened, because Jimmy wrote to me—told me what you two had planned. Stealin’ a U.S. Army payroll. So I knew it was you that did away with him.”

Whitehead shook his head sadly. “That’s not what happened. Things didn’t work out like we thought. There was an extra guard, and he got the drop on me.” Whitehead grunted. “A bit like you
did tonight. I thought it was all over for me when Jimmy jumped the man. Before I could pull my gun out, there were a couple of shots, and they were both dead. There was nothing I could do. I got the strongbox and Jimmy out of there and hightailed it.”

“I knew it. I knew Jimmy was dead. What did you do with him?”

“Buried him.”

“Where?”

“I really can’t tell you—in a farmer’s field, but it was in the middle of the night. Doubt I could find it again. I hid the money in my footlocker—right in plain sight.” Whitehead looked at Churchill. “Look, Jimmy didn’t tell me about you—all he talked about was his sister.”

Churchill nodded. “Jimmy and Jenny were close, that’s true. What does this have to do with the money? You spent it all?”

“Not spent it—invested it.” Whitehead waved his hand. “Some of it’s right here—I’m a partner in this saloon. And there’s other stuff, too, like land and buildings. That’s what Jimmy and I talked about—getting rich off our investments.”

Churchill grimaced. “How much you got in cash?”

“Maybe five thousand, but most of it is in the bank. I got some in my safe in the office, but it’s only two or three hundred. The bank doesn’t open until morning.”

Churchill cursed. “That’s not too good for you, Whitehead.”

“Frank, right? Frank, call me George. Look, I didn’t cheat your brother. We were always going to be partners. Split it right down the middle. But things worked out different. Half of what we got belongs to him, but I can’t turn it into cash. You understand? Look, I’ll be as fair as I can. I can get you four thousand in the morning and we’ll call it fair.”